AN: Mm, I really like writing the twins. But it's really short again; I write short drabbles (if you can even call them that) because I have a very short attention span....

Thank you for all those nice reviews left on my story "Emperor," they really mean a lot to me! Comments are much appreciated!

xxx

The prince had been young when he first had a taste of royal blood. An accident with inconsequential details had left a weeping wound on the delicate cheek of prince Rasiel, and tenderly his twin, Belphegor, had thumbed the crimson droplets away. Belphegor had absentmindedly licked the offending red stain from his finger, and a sweeter flavor he had not once encountered before. To his brother's tongue, Rasiel's blood was rich and simply succulent, with a slight tang that teased his taste buds. In that one fleeting moment, Belphegor had become forever thirsty. A slight nick here, a tiny cut there; negligible injuries that oozed the substance of Belphegor's dark desire, drop by drop by delectable drop. The taste of Rasiel's blood, of his own blood, drove him over the edge. A wonderful little high of sorts, that in him awakened a beast in repose, insatiably thirsting for more and more of that sweet red nectar.

The prince had been young when he had found himself irrevocably addicted to the taste of royal blood. A fight with inconsequential details had left Rasiel impaled through the shoulder by his younger brother's own knife. Tenderly as one handles a fragile doll, Belphegor had lapped the blood from his twin's punctured skin, though not so absentmindely at this point in time. Belphegor could not begin to imagine a more intoxicating beverage than Rasiel's blood. His own royal blood. A deep laceration here, a painful slice there; wounds that freely spilled the luscious wine of life into the desirous mouth of Belphegor. The brilliant hue, the poignant fragrance, the comforting warmth, the sweet, sweet flavor sent the prince spiraling into a dark frenzy, a crazed state of happiness.

The prince had been young when he found himself dependent on the the taste of royal blood. A tragedy with inconsequential details had left him with an almost animal need for the ruby nectar which poured from the mangled body cradled lovingly in his arms. His brother Rasiel, spewing the very fuel of Belphegor's macabre addiction, saturating his clothing, his skin, his very core. His brother Rasiel, his bleeding mirror, now shattered and useless, distorting his reflection into a greedy, inhuman beast. A severed vein here, a slashed throat there. Was Rasiel nothing more than a vivid figment of the prince's imagination? A way to justify his unqueanchable thirst for his own blue blood? Hell could run rampant upon the Earth for all Belphegor gave a damn. All he wanted, all he needed to do was bask in the warmth of his own royal blood.